


Bad Ends

by floss



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floss/pseuds/floss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times everything could have gone catastrophically wrong, one time it didn't, and grappling with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Ends

**Author's Note:**

> In brainstorming, commiseration, encouragement, and beta skills, [narie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/narie) is unrivalled.

**1.**

The silence stretched out, and then turned into a low murmur as the assembled spectators began to question the meaning behind Damen's last-ditch plea. Herode, near the dais, looked pensive.

"Please," Damen whispered.

Paschal had come. He had defected from the Regent's household and chosen Laurent instead. There had to be a reason for that, a reason beyond the horror of tending to too-young boys. But Paschal stood motionless and silent, eyes fixed on some obscure point in front of him.

"If such a man is here, let him speak now," said Herode. He had followed Damen's gaze; his words were directed to the hall at large, but his eyes were on Paschal, whose face had drained of colour.

"If you are afraid, I will grant you immunity," Damen said. He really was pleading now, speaking loudly to hear himself over the pounding of his heart. "No matter what you bring to light, no retribution will come to you. I swear it."

"You don't have that power," Kastor said. "You have no power here at all."

Damen ignored him. 

And watched as, very slowly, Paschal bowed his head.

" _No_." Damen struggled against the men who held him, against his restraints--to what end he didn't know--but was subdued too quickly by the addition of a fourth soldier, who kicked him in the stomach. Damen bowed involuntarily, a parody of obeisance, and gasped through the blunt, eye-watering pain.

"I think we can dispense with these diversions," said the Regent coolly. "Is the Council ready to make its ruling?"

"He's your king!" Damen shouted. 

"He is a spoiled, unworthy prince who has committed treason against his country," the Regent said. "And who will now submit to justice."

"You know something," Damen said to Paschal. "You know something. You could save him."

"That is _enough_."

Damen turned to Laurent, who stood straight-backed despite the heavy weight of the irons, his face unnaturally pale. He didn't meet Damen's eyes. Perhaps he couldn't.

Herode stepped forward, golden scepter in hand. With great solemnity he turned towards the slave who held the black square of cloth, and picked it up. Every movement was measured. He seemed, to Damen, to already be full of regret as he placed the black cloth over the head of the scepter.

Laurent didn't waver. He endured the verdict as, Damen knew, he had endured everything since the death of Auguste: alone but outwardly unbowed, even as he submitted passively to the guards who lead him out of the hall and back to his cell, where he would await execution.

With his hands shackled behind his back and Kastor's guards holding him down, there was nothing Damen could do, and yet he still scanned the hall, pleading in silence for an escape route, for a sword, for a sympathetic face--and found Jord, who was being held back by a stricken Lazar. Both of them were skilled, accomplished warriors, but all the skill in the world was meaningless against the full force of all the Regent's men.

In the relative quiet of the crowded hall, over the ragged sound of his own breathing, the sound of Kastor's sandalled approach echoed.

Kastor said, "You shouldn't have come here."

There was no familiarity in his words or in his expression. It was as if Kastor was speaking to a stranger.

It was, Damen thought, one thing to know that Kastor had murdered their father and sent him into slavery in a ruthless bid for power. It was another thing to know that, and to see it in Kastor's eyes.

"I'm your brother," Damen said.

"It was a mistake of sentimentality on my part to let you live, even as a patricide in exile," Kastor said. His words carried. "The thought of losing both father and brother on the same day was too much, in my grief, to bear." His tone changed. "But your forfeited the honour of family loyalty the day you murdered my father. Did you really think that anyone would believe otherwise? That they would believe the testimony of a woman who was ally to the traitor Prince of Vere?"

Damen had not known such testimony even existed. But it was clear that, even if he were to protest, no one would believe him. It was even more clear that Kastor, with the Regent's guidance, had learned quickly: the regicide Prince Damianos, thought dead, only surviving out of the wounded compassion of his brother, had returned to finish the betrayal he had started, and had been thwarted by the noble and rightful King before the eyes of everyone who mattered.

On every count it was utterly false and, now, utterly impossible to refute.

"Since they were so proud to lie together, let them die together," Kastor said, turning back to the assembled crowd. The Regent nodded his approval. Damen was brought roughly to his feet and, at the point of more swords than he could contend with even if his wrists were unbound, marched to his own dark cell in the bowels of the palace that had been his home.

He was not released from the shackles. In fact, once inside, more were added: his ankles were lashed together and he was chained to the floor by the neck in a strange echo of his time as a slave in Vere. The stone underfoot was roughly hewn, providing ample opportunity for abrasion but not much else, and it was very dark: the braziers lighting the corridor provided only a suggestion of light through the slot in the heavy oaken door, and the high, narrow window in the far wall, facing the ocean, illuminated only the ceiling.

Laurent was down here somewhere. Damen ached to see him--if he could only see him, only talk to him, he was sure that they would manage somehow to get out of this alive. Laurent would come up with some kind of plan. Laurent always had a plan. And when he had Damen, they always got out alive.

Communication was impossible, but any sign of proximity seemed significant; awkwardly, Damen thrashed, throwing the chain that bound his neck against the stones in a clattering echo: _I'm here. We're together. Tell me you're close._

The soldiers reentered. They shortened the chain until Damen could no longer even sit.

Lying on his front, Damen pressed his cheek against the rough stone floor and listened, but there was nothing. He wondered if Laurent had been tethered as Damen now was, too close to the floor to reply. Perhaps he had surmised, correctly, that attempting to communicate would only make their situation worse. Or perhaps he hadn't recognised it as communication at all.

They would be executed at noon when the public square was at its most crowded, a move calculated for maximum effect. Damen thought of the people that would gather, the people he was supposed to liberate. He had come to take Akielos. He had come to lead his people.

Instead of following him, now they would hate him as a traitor. They would cheer when he died.

As it had been with Kastor, seeing with his own eyes was worse than knowing in his mind. The sun, at its peak, beat down like a tangible force against Damen's aching shoulders as he emerged at sword-point into blinking daylight. Having spent hours in darkness Damen's eyes took time to adjust; he forced himself not to squint as he took in the faces arrayed below the oiled wooden platform. They gazed back at him, cruel and impassive, as he was forced to his knees.

Beside him, pale skin and pale hair, Laurent glowed.

"You shouldn't have come," he said in a low voice, below the cries of the crowd. "You were supposed to live."

"So were you," Damen said. Their eyes met.

**2.**

Laurent stared at the door for a long time. It was, in this room, the easiest thing to focus on, far easier than the contents of his cup, the blood staining the grit between the haphazardly-cleaned tiles, or the intensely chafing feel of his undershirt against his skin.

His arm hurt. That was a helpful distraction, although not a service he would ordinarily thank anyone for, and certainly not one for which he would thank the slave.

The slave whose life, Laurent thought, was now forfeit, because he'd decided to take it into his own hands despite Laurent's warnings. There was nothing he could do about that now. He'd attempted to repay the debt that bound them and been rebuffed; if the slave died in an alley like an animal it was no better than he deserved, and certainly none of Laurent's concern.

He had far more pressing matters to attend to. His uncle would have been, by now, roused by the guard who had so conveniently intruded too late to be of any use. And Laurent would be summoned. He had to gather his thoughts, and quickly.

Laurent pushed off the wall. With nothing to take his weight he could feel himself trembling, skin warm and eyes unfocused. He needed to prepare, but found that his thoughts moved like honey, too slow, suffused with an urgency that couldn't take hold of anything useful and a guilt he could do nothing about.

The jug on the nightstand by his bed had escaped the fight unscathed. Laurent ran a finger around the inside; it came away wet, but without residue. He poured it out over the balcony instead of washing his face.

His heart was pounding in his chest, a sickening mix of panic and the effect of the drug. He pulled on his boots, shrugged into his jacket and laced it tightly; that, at least, brought a stop to the incessant rasping of his undershirt.

After that, he sat. Soon he would be summoned by his uncle who would feign concern and, foiled on one count, focus his ire instead against the slave. That Laurent felt some indebted regret for this was abhorrent, but he had no doubt in his mind that he would be dead if not for his intervention. It was--right. That Laurent should return the favour. If he could.

It was darkly reassuring that, although Laurent felt this new duty to ensure a longer life for him, he felt no compulsion to make it a _good_ one.

A knock at the door brought him out of his strained thoughts: Jord, summoning him to the council chamber. Laurent bit back the prickly admonishment--whose orders, exactly, had Jord been following tonight?--and walked in silence. Outside the chamber doors, he said, "Wait for me here."

Lit by high lamplight, the chamber was more opulent by night than by day, the fires accentuating the richness of elaborate tapestries embellished with golden thread. On the dais, ahead, sat the Council, spread out on either side of the throne, whose dark wood, polished by generations of royal hands on its arms, shone. His uncle rose from it as Laurent approached, footsteps swallowed up by the carpet under foot.

"Laurent," his uncle said. "You are unharmed?"

Laurent forced his hands to loosen and focused on the rhythm of his breathing, carefully controlled, as his uncle approached. "Yes," he said, and endured the tender hand which cupped his jaw and the long, evaluating look he got in return. Although there was no outward sign that Lauren was affected, he felt like an open book.

His uncle bowed his head. "That is very fortunate," he said. Then he retreated.

"It is, isn't it?"

"However, you should be seen by a physician," said Herode, whose concern was far more honest than his uncle's but just as unwelcome. "Before we discuss the attack."

"There is nothing to discuss," said Laurent. He kept his eyes on his uncle. "They weren't interested in me. It was the slave they wanted."

"Akielons sneak into the palace, in the dead of night, and gain access to the apartments of the Crown Prince in order to dispense with a slave?" his uncle said. "I find that difficult to believe." 

"They take their blood feuds seriously."

"Where is the slave now?" Herode asked.

"Escaped," Laurent said.

"How else would your assailants have entered but with his help?" his uncle said. "They came to kill you, and to free him. It is clear that you have misjudged the situation. As their fellow conspirator, he will be recaptured and executed."

The Regent's guard was sent for. A party was sent out. Laurent endured interminable questioning; his uncle was determined to lay the guilt at the slave's feet, and Laurent had no choice but to defend him--thwarting his uncle's plans was vital, and it was obvious what his uncle was planning. That Laurent had to save the slave's life to succeed was a cruel but necessary irony.

The only good he could see was that, at least, the effects of the drug were fading with the passage of time; he no longer felt as if his mind was held to ransom in a heavy, single-minded haze. Holding himself up was no longer an effort of will but of habit; his heartbeat ceased to pound in his ears.

"He is gone because he is rebellious and stubborn," Laurent said. "He saw an opportunity for freedom, and he took it." That, at least, was true. "If it was me they wanted, I would be dead."

"How convenient that this opportunity was given by his fellow countrymen. Although they did not survive, the purpose of their mission is clear to all but you." His uncle shook his head, sorrowful. "You have no mind for politics. Your lack of interest almost cost you your life tonight, and still I fear you'll learn no lesson from it."

Laurent realised his jaw was clenched. 

"Then question him," he said. "He knows what happened as well as I do."

The Regent's Guard were already out, searching for any sign of the slave in the night time streets, but Jord was outside, awaiting his orders--if Laurent could send his men to thwart them--

Behind him, the doors swung open. Laurent turned and watched as the commander of the Regent's Guard entered and made perfunctory obeisance.

"Your report?"

"The slave was found and executed in the course of his apprehension," the commander said.

Laurent found that he was surprised, and then he found that he was furious. He had told the slave not to go; he had stood here for more than an hour defending him; he had negotiated fiercely to buy him time--and for what? For the slave to die in the street, executed by his uncle's men.

No better than he deserved--far better than he deserved--and yet Laurent could derive no satisfaction from the death he had coveted since he was a boy: his uncle had won. Again.

**3.**

" _Where is he_?"

Damen was covered in mud and blood and greenish grass stains. A thick sheen of sweat underlay it all, droplets falling from the ends of his hair. Even red around the throat and muddied by the churned-up earth, the herald remained pristine in his contrast, an insult to everyone who had fought here. Who had died.

"Dead," he heard. A rasp.

"Dead?"

For all that it was the herald who had been choked, Damen felt that it was he who couldn't breathe.

"Who," Damen said. His voice sounded strange. The fury of battle, fury at Laurent, became suddenly no more tangible than a memory.

"We were ambushed," said the herald. "Overwhelmed. They took the Prince."

Damen heard himself say, "Where is he."

The herald, mostly recovered, pushed himself up. Now that Damen cared to look, he saw that the herald's expression was anguished. "At Fortaine. Govart was there. The Regent's men were ready for us; they knew where we would be. It must have been his plan--all along, he must have--we could do nothing."

"You could have _protected him_."

Damen felt his hands clench into fists. Felt also Nikandros' hand on his shoulder, firm and steadying and somehow too distant to cut through the roaring tempest of his mind.

"You let him die."

Around them his men stood silent, arrows still trained on the herald. Damen thought he would like, very much, to let them shoot.

But Nikandros said, "At ease," and his men obeyed.

Damen felt adrift as Nikandros gave the orders he himself should have been giving: to tend their wounded, to water their horses, to repair armour and clean weapons.

Dead, he thought, but it didn't seem real. Only captured, surely--surely the herald had no way of knowing, had not seen, but Damen had. Laurent was slippery, a serpent in the body of a man; he had seen Laurent talk his way to freedom before. He could talk his way out of anything.

"He is at Fortaine?" he asked.

The herald bowed his head. "They strung him up, after. From the gates."

Damen closed his eyes. Then he opened them. Even a battlefield was better than what he saw in his mind's eye.

After Nikandros had dismissed the herald, Damen turned to him. "We need to ride out."

"To Fortaine?" Nikandros faltered; he made a movement, perhaps to clasp Damen's shoulder again, but thought better of it. "It's a stronghold, and they're expecting us. We're not equipped for siege."

"We need to get him."

"He is _dead_ ," Nikandros said. "If we go, we join him."

"He can't stay there," Damen said.

"Listen to yourself!"

" _Listen to your king_!"

Nikandros reared back as if he'd been slapped. Damen tried to get control of his breathing, tried to get control of his thoughts, tried to imagine what he would find at Fortaine--they would storm it; they would be outnumbered but they would take it, and it would be hard, but--Laurent would be down in the dungeons, improbably, waiting for him, and Damen would find him there, once the fighting was done, harmed, perhaps, but alive, and Laurent would say--Laurent would be _alive_ , and he would say--

"Don't let him lead us to the slaughter again," Nikandros said. "He is dead."

"You don't--"

"You're not thinking," Nikandros said forcefully, putting every ounce of command into those three words. "Damen," he said. " _Think_."

Damen drew an unsteady hand down his face, then up again, into his sweat-sodden hair.

"You were," Nikandros hesitated. "Loyal to him. I know."

Loyal. Is that what he was?

"Don't let that cloud your judgement," Nikandros continued. "Leave Vere to the Veretians. You no longer owe anything to anyone here. Your duty is to Akielos. You are her king."

The sky above was thick with clouds, a pristine white that turned to darker grey along the horizon, an upturned bowl filled with smoke. The air was heavy with it. Damen breathed in and wondered at the fact that he didn't choke. The rain would soak into the ground that covered their dead and make it heavy, cleanse the earth of their spilled blood and bring wildflowers in their wake, delicate and pale.

Laurent should have been here.

"We hold the centre," he said.

"But we don't have Akielos."

"We will take it," Damen said. "And Vere--"

"Is not your concern," Nikandros said.

Damen gritted his jaw. "As long as his uncle lives, it is," he said. 

Among the scattered crowd of unaffected Akielon faces he saw the few Veretians who had ridden with him under Laurent's banner. Lazar, Huet. Jord, who was scrubbing the filth of battle from his armour.

Damen said, "You're right. An army couldn't get in. But one man could."

Nikandros closed his eyes. 

"I'm not asking you to come with me."

"I won't let you go alone," Nikandros said. 

Damen glanced again at Jord. With a single, hard-faced look, all that needed to be said passed between them in silence. Jord nodded and turned away to rouse his men.

"I won't be alone," Damen said. "Wait for me on the border."

**4.**

Laurent turned his face into the gentle curve of Damen's palm and kissed it, softly. It had surprised him, at Karthas, when Damen had done that for him. He remembered that. 

Now it surprised Damen, too. His smile, already wide, was now radiant. Laurent didn't want to look away. He fixed the image in his mind, precise in every detail, taking in the cool, subtly sloping marble floor, the blood and water soaking into the insufficient square of his ruined chiton, the sound of bells echoing off the walls, overwhelming the gently lapping water of the slave baths. 

Kastor behind him, lifeless.

And before him, Damen, chained to the floor, his own chiton bright with blood. Damen, who smiled.

Upstairs, the Council waited. His uncle's men were no longer his uncle's; they were his. By now they would have purged the palace of those who remained loyal to Kastor. And in Sicyon was his army, who held a string of fortresses all throughout the north and waited for his orders. His uncle was dead. Vere was his, along with all the forces within it.

He could take Akielos, too, if he wanted.

There must have been some tremor in him, some shift of muscle, some small sign of realisation. Damen's smile faltered. He said, gently, "Laurent."

Of course. He always knew. No matter how hard he tried Laurent could never hide from him, and he'd spent almost half his life perfecting the art of hiding so much from everyone. It made him feel exposed.

Damen's hand, which had been so warm on Laurent's cheek, retreated; he was trying to get up again, braced on his elbow. Laurent pushed him down with a hand on his chest.

"Don't," he said. "Stay still. You'll be hurt."

"I'm already hurt," Damen said. There was a strange edge to his voice.

"So don't move," Laurent said. His own voice sounded strange too. There was an unreal quality to it, as if he were speaking in a dream, more thought than voice. He watched his hand slide to Damen's cheek and felt himself tip forward. Damen's breath gusted unsteadily against his lips. "Don't move."

Damianos of Akielos. Prince-Killer. He could die here in the slave baths, chained as a slave, killed by his own brother.

And Laurent could take Akielos. All he would have to do is nothing.

"Laurent," Damen said again, breathlessly, as Laurent straightened. He thought, Damen didn't want to say it. He didn't want to make the unspoken realisation that had passed between them real.

He moved his hand down to cover the one Damen held against his stomach and pressed. A reminder: keep it staunched. Then he stood.

Damen reached for him as he turned his back. The high clatter of the chain that held him fast filled Laurent's ears, overwhelming, for a moment, the sound of his own heartbeat.

"Laurent, what are you doing?"

He passed the prone, still body of Kastor, flanked by two swords. Blood pooled around him. Laurent forced himself not to give it a wide berth. 

" _Laurent_."

He came to the stairs. Like everything else in this vast room they were marble, finely-hewn, and stained with Damen's blood. At the foot of them, Laurent hesitated.

Damen would die here. He would die scared and in pain.

But he didn't have to die alone. Laurent owed him that much. Laurent owed him far, far more than that. Laurent owed him everything.

When he turned there was smooth, cool marble at his back. His limbs were shaking; hours of standing shackled in irons had taken its toll, and now that the rush of energy that his duel with Kastor had brought him was ebbing away, Laurent felt keenly how weak he now was.

Damen had pushed himself up and onto his side; his head lolled a little where it rested on his shoulder. Every breath was a desperate gasp and his face was transformed: pain wracked it, hardening every line into a harsh grimace that made him look cruel.

Laurent had pictured his face like that, as a boy. He'd thought, that is what Damianos of Akielos would look like. And then I would kill him.

And yet Damen still sounded infinitely gentle when he held out his bloodied hand and said, "Come here."

He wanted to. He wanted desperately to take it all back, to return once more to Damen's side, to kneel, to touch the warm expanse of his skin, to have Damen look at him like he had only a few moments ago: as if Laurent were precious. As if he were loved. 

He wanted to, and knew that he couldn't. Damen would never look at him that way again, not now. If he freed Damen he would die. Laurent had spent months knowing that to be true, and now it was true again.

He heard himself say, "Put your hand back."

"Why?" Damen laughed then, a bitter, breathless thing. "So you can watch me die slowly?"

Laurent thought that he didn't want him to die at all. He said, "You killed my brother."

"You killed mine."

"I know." Laurent willed his gaze not to waver. "I had to."

"And now you think you have to do this," Damen said. His chest was heaving; every quick, shallow breath seemed to take effort and cause pain. "You don't. Laurent, you don't."

Laurent quelled, brutally, the hope that flared in his chest: that someone would come, that someone would stop him. That Damen would stop him. Damen always stopped him.

"Let me go. I won't--hurt you." _I'd never hurt you,_ Laurent remembered. "You will go back to Vere unharmed. For as long as I reign our countries will be at peace. I won't seek retribution. Laurent, I swear it."

Trapped, near death, entirely at his mercy, Damen would say anything to free himself. Just as Laurent would have. Just as he had, at Fortaine. He'd forgiven Govart everything, promised to give him anything. And then he had killed him. Just as Damen would.

Damen struggled against the chain, but he was weak; every attempt at purchase sent his feet skidding in his own blood, so that instead of pulling it towards himself, loosening it, he pulled himself towards the chain.

It didn't last long. That was the worst thing, how quickly the struggle ended.

Exhausted, Damen fell back and stared up at the high ceiling. He was panting; each breath wrenched noise from his throat, like a sob. Laurent realised that he had unconsciously begun to match the pace of them: short, shallow. He felt lightheaded.

"I know you didn't plan this," Damen said, to himself more than to Laurent.

"I improvised."

"You're good at that."

It was, more than anything, the resignation in his voice that made Laurent understand--really understand--what he had done. Damen was beyond the help of medicine now. Damen wasn't going to stop him. Laurent couldn't take it back.

With effort, Damen turned his head and, for the second time, held out his hand. The gesture was weaker now, only a flicker of movement in the fingers. Quietly, he said, "Come here."

Laurent went.

Up close his eyes were bright, glassy in equal parts with grief and death, but soft. 

"You're a snake," he said. In his mouth it sounded tender.

Laurent sat with him as his breathing slowed. He sat with him as it stopped. After, he simply sat.

The chain, slippery with blood, skittered away across the marble floor where Laurent kicked it. The harsh, metallic scrape of it was the loudest thing in the room: the ringing of the bells had stopped.

Later, he would feel it. Later he would feel everything. Now Laurent stood and, unsteadily, ascended the stairs.

The great hall was just as he had left it: crowded. Disconcertingly normal, even on this strange day. Even after what he had done. Veretian and Akielon soldiers streamed in, reported to their commanders, and left again with fresh orders. The Akielon nobles who had been present for the curiosity of Laurent's trial had long since gone, or perhaps been disposed of. As had the body of his uncle. The councillors--his councillors now--stood near the dais.

Their expressions turned stricken as he approached. Laurent wasn't surprised. He knew what he looked like.

"King Damianos of Akielos," Laurent said, projecting his voice to carry even as it took every ounce of will he had left to keep it steady, "is dead. He was killed by Kastor, his brother. I avenged him."

Strange, that he didn't even have to lie.

"Their bodies are in the slave baths." This to the Akielon commander who, grave-faced, nodded and made his way out. To his own commander, he said, "Take the palace."

It was one kingdom, once.

**5.**

Damen stared down at Laurent's fingers wrapped around his own and found himself thinking it was strange that such marmoreal skin could emit human warmth. 

But of course Laurent was human. With the application of a knife point, the give of his tightly-wrapped flesh was apparent. It would yield to the rest of the blade, if Damen chose.

Damen wanted very much to choose.

Laurent had watched, impassive, as the skin was flayed from his back. He had planned to lock Damen away for months in the few square feet of his cell. Laurent had wanted him to rot there. The illusion of freedom he had been given on the road was just that--an illusion. Laurent was capricious, and there was no end to the depths of his cruelty. If Damen stayed at his side it would only be a matter of time. If he survived long enough to make it to the border, it would not be unscathed.

Damen knew enough of Laurent to be intimately aware that the only weapon Laurent needed was his mouth. If he had any hope of survival, Damen needed luck. It was luck that he had been allowed to leave the palace at all. It was luck that he was here now. Laurent had underestimated him: it was unlikely that Damen would be underestimated in this way again.

The keep was asleep. Laurent had sent his guards away. Damen had armour and a sword, and he could take a horse. He could, if he had to, find a blacksmith to remove the cuffs and collar, someone unfamiliar with Akielon custom, and use the gold to pay his way.

Nikandros, loyal and sorely missed, waited for him in Delpha. If Damen rode wisely he could be across the border in a little over a week. And from there, he would take his country back.

To defeat the Regent, Laurent needed Damen. But Damen didn't need him. He would have armies.

He shoved forward with all his strength, prompting a convulsive tightening of Laurent's hand around Damen's to stop the backwards lurch as blade pierced fine cloth and finer skin.

True to his word, Laurent didn't scream. He only let out a sharp breath as Damen withdrew the bloodied knife. For a moment his eyes closed; when they opened again, they were pale and very wide. Damen watched him press a hand to the wound in his stomach and, unsteadily, wrap the other around the edge of the table.

It was not gratifying. It was not honourable. It wasn't anything that Damen could take pride in. But if he wanted his freedom, if he wanted his kingdom, it was the only way.

Profusely bleeding and gasping unsteadily, Laurent looked, as he never did, vulnerable, and yet by strength of will alone he was still standing.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Damen asked. 

Laurent's fist was white-knuckled. "I thought I'd find out," he said.

Then he shoved the table into Damen's legs and picked up a chair. There was no time for shock: Damen pushed the table aside and moved inside the low, clumsy arc of it; rather than let the chair be wrenched out of his grip Laurent dropped it and darted back, nimble despite the pain transfiguring his face.

Damen had seen Laurent fight. Only a few nights ago, which seemed strangely distant now, he had been witness to Laurent fighting for his life. Now he was experiencing it first hand. Damen advanced and Laurent retreated, stumbling, kicking furniture and throwing ornaments to buy himself time.

There wasn't time. There wasn't distance, either; Laurent, following a tight semi-circle, had herded himself so that his back was now to the fire. There was nowhere left to retreat, and little strength; the midnight blue of his jacket was stained to true black by blood which, despite the persistent pressure of his hand, was only shed more quickly through exertion. His free hand hung awkwardly a little distance from his side, pain perhaps having made his muscles uncomfortably taut.

Damen, breathing roughened, came to a stop before him, fist still tight around the knife. He had no desire to close the few feet of space between them, but he didn't want to open a path for escape either. 

"Do you know who killed your father?" Laurent asked. 

Damen froze.

"My father," he said.

"The King of Akielos," Laurent said. His mouth twisted. "Which is the answer to both of our questions."

Damen said, distantly, "You know who I am."

"I know who you are," Laurent said. "Damianos."

Damen ducked away from the blackened metal spike of the fire iron before he'd properly registered that Laurent had closed his hand around it. It was his turn to retreat; the reach of Laurent's weapon was far longer than his own, which suddenly seemed exactly as poor as it was. A table knife wasn't going to save him.

Damen should have slit his throat. Now he was, ridiculously, running for his life, impeded by the detritus of Laurent's retreat. But Laurent hadn't been running, Damen realised. He had been leading. Damen should do the same. 

Neither of them could leave this room while the other still lived; the keep slept, but it could be roused. Damen was confined to the heavily-ornamented walls of this room. His only hope for survival was that he could run for longer than Laurent could bleed. Being able to bleed for longer than Damen could run was _Laurent's_ only hope, but he was bleeding a lot. Damen hooked a chair behind him and heard the impact as Laurent staggered.

They were back where they had started. Spilled water glistened on the flagstones and soaked darkly into the intricately woven rugs. The table lay on its side. Damen dropped the knife, picked the table up by a leg, and swung with both hands in a wide, strong arc that caught Laurent in the shoulder so heavily that he fell. The fire iron skittered with the momentum of impact across the floor far out of his reach, coming to a stop by the bed.

Laurent stared up at him. His eyes were alight with fury. But, now felled, he didn't get up; his legs were a tangle under him and his arm hung uselessly at his side, broken at the collar. Every breath heaved through him, rattling oddly in his throat. Damen had never seen a man so pale. But now Laurent managed to be paler even than himself.

If Laurent's fingers were wrapped around his now, Damen thought, they would be cold.

He had no kind words, which the dying deserved. All he had were insults and recriminations. He chose not to voice them.

In a low voice, Laurent said, "Leave me. I wish to be alone."

Damen was resolved not to go until he knew that it was safe, but he was equally resolved that he should do what he could: he nodded and, giving Laurent a wide berth, walked to the window, so that their backs were to each other.

It was a clear night. The stars overhead glimmered; the moon illuminated the heavily forested hills and fields below. Hunting country.

Before he left he would need to right this room, to allay suspicion for as long as possible. And he would have to do something with Laurent. Put him in the bed, perhaps. From the respectful distance of a servant, it would look as if he were sleeping.

The duplicity seemed disgusting, and wholly Veretian. Damen had spent too long here. But he stayed by the window long after Laurent's breathing had ceased.

**+1**

The sun was still low on the horizon but the heat of the coming day was already settling in, a crackling, dry thing that no amount of water could slake. Just after dawn it was made bearable by the tempering coolness of sea breeze through the arched, open windows, but in a few hours Laurent knew from experience that he would yearn for a river to hold his meetings in.

Still, it was beautiful. Everything was suffused with a warm glow, from the blue-tinged horizon to the white marble walls to Damen, who slept peacefully beside him, covered by the light sheet that obscured both his nakedness and the bandages still wrapped thickly around his middle. The curls of his hair, dishevelled in sleep, spindled out and caught the light so that he looked bordered by gold.

One day Laurent would wake up and take it for granted that he was alive. That Damen was alive. That they had their kingdoms--that soon it would be one, united. He would think that waking up in an overheated tangle of sheet and nightshirt and lover was an annoyance instead of trying to contemplate the unbelievable fact that he had woken up at all.

For now Laurent's only concession to practicality was to kick himself free of the sheet and roll onto his stomach, giving his back an opportunity to cool. He was content to stay here and watch, not for the first time, the slow process of Damen waking up, which started with a flutter of eyelids that, eventually, resulted in them opening a fraction. He scrubbed his face. He reached out to touch Laurent's arm.

"It's still dark?" he asked. His voice was rough with sleep.

"No," Laurent said. "You're blocking out the sun."

Damen let out a breath of laughter and rolled over. "It's barely dawn," he said. Then he rolled back.

It took Laurent a moment to realise that Damen was tilting his head for a kiss, but if Damen noticed the delay he didn't comment on it; Laurent pushed away the faint annoyance at his own unstudied hesitation and focused instead on the softness of Damen's lips.

"Sometimes I think," Laurent said as he pulled away, "we're very unlikely."

Damen paused. "Do you?"

"I could have fallen off the roof," Laurent said. "When we were covering the escape of my messenger in Nesson. Or fallen from the balcony."

"I would have caught you," Damen said. "Both times, I would have caught you."

"We would have died when we were captured in the mountains if Halvik's clan hadn't come," Laurent said, ignoring him.

"I was already half way to saving us." Damen leaned in for another kiss, then said, "You're morbid this morning."

"You never think about it?" Laurent asked. "I could have killed you when we duelled."

The sun had risen over Damen's shoulder now, causing Laurent to squint. Sensing the reason for his discomfort, Damen moved up the bed and straightened his shoulders so that he blocked the sun again.

"You wouldn't have killed me," he said. "And I wasn't going to kill you."

Laurent said, "I could have been executed here."

"You knew I would come."

Laurent shook his head. "I didn't expect you to. I thought you'd go back to our army."

Damen stilled. After a moment, he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. "That was your plan." His voice had changed. "To buy enough time for me to escape."

"Yes."

It had been the obvious course of action, the only choice available that guaranteed some measure of success. Laurent would die, but he had always known that was a possibility. The only thing he could ensure was that Damen lived. He'd thought Damen had known that.

"Your entire plan rested on the assumption that I would abandon you," Damen said. "I thought you knew I'd come."

Laurent reached out and tentatively touched his arm. 

Damen said, "You should have accounted for me."

"I thought I did."

"No. You accounted," Damen said, turning to face Laurent again, "for a man who never chose you, and that man doesn't exist."

Laurent looked at him. His eyes were very dark and he met Laurent's gaze steadily, as if the strength of his conviction could be transfered through eye contact if not through words.

Laurent said, "It was the only way I could see."

"See me."

"I do," Laurent said.

He meant it as an apology. Damen took it as one; this time when Laurent reached for him Damen allowed himself to be pulled close, arms around one another and faces tucked together. There was a tension in him; there was a tension in Laurent too. Damen, perhaps sensing it and desiring to dispel it in them both, breathed out and tightened his arms around Laurent's back.

Laurent placed his hand at the nape of Damen's neck and pulled him into a kiss, slow and soft. Eventually, the weight of Damen's hand sliding down Laurent's back elicited a flicker of interest that turned the kissing into something more urgent as their bodies pressed together under the sheet.

"I was always going to come for you," Damen said, hushed close by Laurent's ear. 

"I didn't want you to die," Laurent said.

"I didn't," Damen said. "We didn't."

Laurent said, "We almost did."

The skin that had been sliced by Kastor's knife was freshly healed, but the muscle underneath would take longer: the bandage that covered Damen's stomach was more reminder than protector now. Laurent pushed Damen onto his back, pulled his nightshirt over his head and rolled over him, into Damen's exceedingly gentle embrace, only his fingertips on Laurent's neck and hip. They were so close that, when Damen whispered, "But we're here," Laurent felt it on his lips. 

"I know," Laurent said. "I know."

"You're here," Damen said. "You're with me. Feel this. Let me come in your arms."

Laurent slid his fingers into Damen's hair. "Like this?" he asked. 

"With you inside me," Damen said.

Laurent had to turn his head away, a strange instinct for privacy against the jolt of heat. After a moment he said, "You're more... practised than I am."

"In this, so are you," Damen said.

The bottles arrayed by the bed were not only decorative, although they were certainly that. Laurent selected one and sat up. With oiled fingers he touched the tight curl of muscle that was his object; unused to intrusion, it flinched, defensive. A muscle in Damen's thigh jumped. Laurent watched Damen's face as he stroked without entering; his eyes alternately fluttered closed and then opened again, fixed on Laurent. He was flushed, beautifully, solid and vital.

Laurent leaned forward again to kiss him. The helplessly satisfied sigh Damen let out when Laurent added a second finger and began to acclimatise him in earnest, coupled with the sensation of Damen arching up to take them deeper, was almost overwhelming. Their chests heaved with breath. Laurent experienced the weight of their bodies as something almost strange, but the fact of them together was something he wanted to cherish.

Damen's fingers trailed up and down the side of Laurent's neck. In time, he realised, with Laurent's fingers. Unconsciously. Suddenly Laurent couldn't bear not to be inside anymore, and couldn't stand to move away; with oiled hand, he coated himself and then, carefully, guided the head to press against Damen, heated and newly giving.

"I want to take you slow." He realised he was whispering.

"So go slow," Damen said.

His fingers had stilled against Laurent's neck, but Laurent was at a vantage to be able to take in every flicker of muscle in Damen's jaw and every flutter of eyelash as, slowly, Laurent slid inside, every subdued thrust taking him deeper. Damen's eyes were dark and intense, his lips softly parted.

Except for Damen's fingers resting against his neck there was no other point of contact between them but the most intimate embrace of Damen around the most sensitive part of himself. Laurent dropped his head to rest against Damen's cheek and let out a breath. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He was inside. Damen enveloped him, firm and warm. Laurent wanted intensely to prolong this moment, the intimacy of it, but impetus was too mesmeric to resist; he found his body moving of its own accord, seeking its own pleasure as Damen sought his lips. His fingers began to trace against Laurent's pulse again, an echo of his own languid rhythm.

_Feel this_ , Damen had said. Laurent felt it.

The sensations were too new to guard against them easily; over and over again Laurent trembled towards the precipice, and over and over again he forced himself back, until he was nothing but a mind withholding pleasure while his body worked to give it. Damen, below him, was restless; he held Laurent to him, touched his hips, arched his back. Something about the closeness of this made him quiet, as if giving himself full voice would fracture something precious, but when he got close he forgot himself: something reassuringly familiar, Damen tightening his grip and meeting Laurent's thrusts, setting his own faster, rougher pace as he spilled across his stomach.

"Don't stop." Breathless.

"I'm happy to," Laurent said, "if you'd prefer it."

Damen said, "Don't," and placed his hand back on Laurent's hip, as if the lightness of that touch would be enough to keep him in place. "Take your pleasure in me."

He had been holding himself back for Damen. Now Damen was urging him on, heavy-limbed with satiation but eager for them both to have this and to feel it as Laurent's rhythm grew unsteady and he climaxed, deep inside.

It took some time to catch his breath. He stilled, face tucked against Damen's quickened pulse and hand tight on his shoulder. Damen cupped the back of his head, soothing and patient. After a moment Laurent gathered his strength and lifted off him, slipping free with one last shock of sensation, and walked towards the jug and basin.

The interlude wasn't long enough to gather himself. Laurent returned, washcloth in hand, not quite able to meet Damen's eyes; he sat down by his hip and cleaned him carefully, turned away from Damen's face. For his part Damen said nothing, only spread his legs in silence so that Laurent could clean there, too.

When he was finished Damen took the washcloth and, sweetly, returned the gesture. With his face slightly averted Laurent watched him; he looked almost studious, alert to every subdued reaction Laurent gave to the soft brush of the cloth over his too-sensitive skin.

Tentatively, Laurent touched his hair. It was very soft.

The sun was truly up now, bringing the full oppressive heat of summer with it. They had passed a lot of time. Laurent lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes, letting the weak breeze cool his skin. The bed shifted, adjusting to the lack of Damen's weight, and sunk again a moment later. Then a cloth, new and newly cold, was wiped carefully across his brow. The surprise of it gave Laurent pause. There was no end to Damen's gestures.

"Be close to me," he murmured, lifting a hand and reaching vaguely until it found Damen's arm.

Damen lay down at his side. Laurent took the cloth and, delicately, wiped it over his pinked cheeks.

"You don't need to," Damen said.

"I like to."

In the shadow of Damen's body, cooled by the water, the heat wasn't unbearable. He wrung the cloth out over Damen's shoulder, which was angled towards him in a languid curl, and spread the droplets into a sheen with his fingers. Damen's breath fanned out over his face. Laurent could feel his heartbeat.

"We're here," Laurent said.

"We were always going to be here," Damen said. He touched Laurent's wrist, fingers skimming between palm and cuff before twining with Laurent's own. "I was always going to come for you."

Laurent curled in against him. "I--thank you," he said. He held Damen's hand to his lips. "I'll take it into account."


End file.
